Moore

Over a decade ago, in what seems like another life now, Matt and I were married and in college. Between the two of us we held down four jobs, and one of mine was at Bottles to Buses Daycare. 

One hot spring afternoon we were on the playground and I noticed the sky turning green, and the trees were starting to whip back and forth beyond what was a normal windy day. A few seconds later the tornado sirens went off.

I cannot explain the terror that filled my heart as the other teachers and I tried to hustle dozens of toddlers inside the building. I have not known terror like that since, except in those flash moments when Jane is very sick or hurt.

For so long I declared that I probably wouldn't have children, but on that day over ten years ago, I was mama to a dozen little babies who wobbled when they ran and couldn't quite get the knack of potty training. A least I felt like a mama as we all huddled in an interior hallway. We teachers put on our best fake smiley faces and sang Jesus Loves Me, and then Itsy Bitsy Spider. Truly, I was terrified.

We heard the roar as a tornado passed over, flinging limbs and debris against the roof of the old church the daycare was housed in.

The children, for the most part were oblivious to the dangers. They sat cross legged, climbing on me like their own personal jungle gym. They picked their noses and sang If You're Happy and You Know It with the most adorable lisps.

It's hard to wrap my mind around the tragedy a tornado can bring. But the children in Moore. I have had to turn off the news. It makes my heart ache in the worst way. It makes me remember that day, many years ago, and all those toddlers that called me Miss Wiz. They are teenagers now.

I'm sitting here in bed, at 4:47 a.m. unable to sleep. I can hear the birds chorusing in the trees outside. Matt is snoring next to me, and Jane is asleep across the hall. Mabel alone is awake, staring at me with a questioning face.

"What gives woman? Go to sleep."

I suppose I feel it's my obligation, a little bit, to be sleepless right now. To sit here in the darkness, in solidarity with all the Moore mamas who are wide awake and worried. 

Arkansas has a stormy forecast today. Possible severe weather, those are the words the weatherman uses. None of us here in the south get a pass from these scares.

May God bless you, Oklahoma. May God protect us and heal us from these things we will never, ever be able to understand.

The Weekend On My Phone

12 Years. I Wouldn't Change a Thing.

No One Tells You These Things

Recently, Jane took the liberty of adding items to my bedside table. It was really only a matter of time until she took some ownership of the space, as she's always finding reasons to be in it. First thing in the morning she wants to snuggle and watch cartoons. After dinner she stacks a tower of books on the floor and wants me to read to her in bed.

I always have a stash of books, a glass of water, my glasses, TUMS and hand cream on the bedside table. She's fascinated by these things. One night after a reading session, she deposited her Dr. Seuss book on top of the table, next to my books, and smiled shyly.

"I put there," she said.

A few days later she left me a t-shirt she'd used to blow her nose. This week I noticed her Tinkerbell cell phone, a purple sock, and a comic book that came with her Chick-fil-A dinner called Cowborg (this entire piece of literature confuses her and she just calls it "angry cow").

A few nights later I turned out the lights and settled in. I fell asleep and rolled over. Jane, like the thoughtful two year old terrorist that she is, had carefully deposited her Tinkerbell phone under the covers. Verily I say unto thee ladies... you have never known terror until you roll onto a toy in your sleep and it switches on, and through the dark you hear these words:

"Iridescent! You're looking sparkly tonight!" 

I'd previously finished watching an episode of Hannibal before bed, and Matt was working late. My sleep deprived brain mixed all these components into a scary stew cocktail before I was even conscious enough to analyze what was happening to me. I sat straight up in the dark, lunging away from the pale yellow light of that little demonic piece of plastic.

The Tinkerbell cell phone might be this generations's Chucky doll.

Here's the part of the story where I'm a very bad mother. After she left for daycare the next day, I submerged the phone in water. I did not ever want to hear that thing bleat another chipper, horrifying fairy phrase.

"You are glowing with sunshine today!"

"My, I'm impressed by your fairy wisdom!"

I watched the bubbles gurgle to the surface and smiled smugly, knowing the little electric workings of its guts were smoldering into oblivion. Then I took it out, dried it off, and deposited it back onto my side table. There would be no more midnight Tinkerbell horror in my house.

The plan was very clear in my mind.

Jane would come home, pushing the previously chatty buttons on her Tinkerbell cell phone : "It's bwoken!"

Me, hugging her, seeking to assuage my guilt: "Aw. That's ok. Let's go buy you a new cell phone."

*insert super fun mommy-daughter Target date here*

I went into my closet to put on shoes. I hummed a little tune. I felt no guilt. That's when a horrible, garbled voice from the bedroom started talking to me.

"The moon above gives us good cheer!"

It sounded as if Tinkerbell was a life long smoker, and had had a baby with Pee-wee Herman. Then they recorded it's voice, and then slowed it down to the slowest speed possible.

"Theeee fairyyyyy duuuuust is readddddy for harrrrrvest..."

 I know when I've been beaten, and that hellish piece of Chinese plastic beat me. I ran down the stairs, out the door, into the garage, and off to the safety of work.

They should really tell you about things like this when you take your childbirth classes. No one tells you that one day you'll try to snuff out Tinkerbell. And then plan to lie to your kid about it. And then Tinkerbell will resurrect herself from the dead and taunt you with her zombie vocal chords.

No one tells you these things.

Writing About "It"

I recently finished watching a video series PBS did with Nora Ephron, and when she said this line, the world around me went into slow motion.

"Someday this will be funny, and you will write about it."

Don't you love how that happens? Every once in a blue moon something so small, yet so pivotal, takes place and everything you were doing before gets rerouted and redirected somewhere new.

When I heard her say those words, I teared up. This was partly because I'm still coming off antidepressants and it's making me a weepy little nut-ball on certain moments of the day. I also teared up out of relief.

I am relieved that finally, after all this time, I can laugh about my postpartum depression.

For a long, long time, I could not laugh about it. And then, all of a sudden, I could.

I have a long standing rule that if I can't laugh about something, I won't write about it. It just takes time. With enough time, most things can be funny.

I think some people believe writing is a terribly romantic endeavor. I beg to differ. Writing, for me, is hard. It is hair pulling. I have to sit by myself and be terribly antisocial. I tell Matt, "Pretend I'm not here." Which really stinks, because I like it when he talks to me.

I type for a while, glare at the screen and say something like, "Why can't you just cooperate with me...words? Huh? Huh?" Basically, I have to be a little bit schizophrenic to do what I do. I'm sure it's not that way for everyone, but it is for me. And since writing is not this easy, romantic, "lightning just struck my brain" event, I really have to have a carrot in front of my face. I have to bribe myself. The funny stuff is the carrot. If I can make myself chuckle, all that talking to myself and hair pulling is worth it.

So that's what I've been doing. I've been putting my postpartum depression experiences on paper.  I'm doing all of this through the lens of humor, of course. It's cathartic. But it also symbolizes, for me, a big shift in my life.

It feels like I can finally close the door and move on.

The Sweetest May

This is the sweetest month. Flowers, bees, late sunsets, herbs on the patio, strawberry pies (from here), twinkle lights in the neighbor's yard... it's all so wonderful. I cannot wait for the cicadas and fireflies.

This was my third mother's day as a mom. I have to say, I don't really remember the last two. I know that's awful, but where those days should be in my mind there are only two big, empty spaces. I can, however, remember every detail of the last purchasing meeting I went to. I can remember, in detail, what my high school boyfriend said when he broke up with me. I can remember account numbers, budget totals, and the date of the last time I cleaned the floors in my house. I can remember Jane's first word (duck) and the first time she walked (at 18 months in our temporary apartment on a cold fall night). I can remember my last date with Matt when he took me to an eastern European restaurant. I got bratwurst and fried potatoes.  We talked about going to see The Great Gatsby and Matt said, "I just hope we don't get Les Miser-obbed."

He did not like Les Miserables.

But for some reason I've lost every detail of the last two mother's days.

I suspect there's only so much room in my brain. And I'd like to think that I've filled up all those spaces with other more important memories than a commercial holiday packed with Jared commercials. Am I the only one who wants to kick a puppy every time I see one of those chocolate diamond commercials? Or the commercials that feature a necklace with what can only be described as a diamond shard... not even a chip... in the center? Seriously men. Just have your children draw your wife a picture and let her sleep in. No one wants a diamond shard.

I say all that to end up at this point: this was a great Mother's Day. This one I will remember. I'll remember because of this post, and these pictures.I will remember this day because Matt remembered my favorite dessert.  I'll remember because it was the first time Jane did both #1 and #2 in her potty. I'll remember the way she peered at her poop suspiciously (a sight previously unseen in her entire life because they're usually safely contained in her diaper). She looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, all the while her forehead was creased in a monstrous frown. She drew up her hands and said, "No touch. It's yucky."  I will remember because I really want to. These are things I do not want to forget.

Thank goodness for pictures. Thank goodness for a blog.

He Picks Up the Slack. And by Slack, I Mean Poop.

I got an email the other day asking why I don't blog more about my marriage. Actually, she specifically wanted to know if my marriage was "really that good" or if I just put a good spin on it.

I can only assume this lady hasn't read my book. Because guys, it's all in there. I wrote about his sleepwalking, wedgie giving, and intense fear of spiders. I wrote about our fight with all the windows open in the house and the neighbors that undoubtedly heard.

I'm not holding back secret information.

But she was right in that I don't blog a lot of marriage details. It's not even a conscience decision, now that I think about it. But it's true, I don't come here to vent when he forgets to deposit checks. Or when we have a silent standoff to see who will wash towel first and we end up drying off after our showers with a stack of six wash cloths. That is a true story. From this weekend.

On the flip side, I'm not trying to hide any of that. I'm not trying to make things look rosier than they really are. It's just... there's a time and a place for griping about your husband. When you're out to dinner with your girlfriends and someone leads off with, "Can you believe that he __________ ." Or when you see your therapist. Or skype your sisters.

 I assume he has his times and places for his own venting about me. Like when I'm feeling all Paxily and don't do the dishes for three days in a row, even though our arrangement is that he cooks and I clean. Like when I ask him every single night "Did you lock the doors?" even after I've watched him lock all the doors. Like how I look like a completely different person with makeup on, but at night when I take it off I somehow morph into crack-addict-face, complete with giant under-eye circles and pores that would make a Clinique makeup artist cry for her mother. "False advertising, that's what it is," he undoubtedly tells his friends.

But here's what I will say. Matt picks up the slack. He gets up from the dinner table and runs Jane a bath without even asking if I need him to. Now, he doesn't actually GIVE her the bath or wash her hair (her hair intimidates him), but that's beside the point. And while Jane plays in the yard and I'm taking pictures, he silently makes his rounds, picking up Mabel's poop and throwing it over the fence into the bushes by the creek. So she won't run in it. So I won't step in it.

Our marriage is not sunshine and roses all the time. We fight. We get our feelings hurt. We feel misunderstood sometimes. I've even been known to stick out my tongue at him when his back is turned. But as we approach our 12 year anniversary next week, I've come to realize that as long as you pick up the slack for each other, you can make it. As long as someone isn't the taker all the time, and someone isn't the giver all the time, you can hold onto each other and find things to laugh about, together. No matter what fight transpires, I know deep in my heart that Matt loves me. He's fun. He's cute. He's hard worker. He's a good father. And he's willing to pick up the slack.

One day when Jane is older she may ask me about marriage. And I'll tell her, "Find a man who picks up dog poop in the yard so you won't step in it. That's true love."